


The Nutcracker Prince

by playbychoices



Series: Ethereal & Ineffable [2]
Category: Desire & Decorum (Visual Novel)
Genre: (gee i wonder how you could tell that), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas Party, F/M, Inspired by The Nutcracker Prince, References to The Nutcracker, and further establishing their history that lets them fall in love IN THE FUTURE AS ADULTS, does this count as Slow Burn?, i say it's Ernest/MC but really it's more of them as children, so there's. romance elements. you can see they'll fall in love in the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23064130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playbychoices/pseuds/playbychoices
Summary: Persephone doesn’t want to grow up quite yet, but she has a lot of excitement for the future. Like her family’s three-day-long annual Christmas party! But what happened to Ernest Sinclair? And why is Uncle Westonly being so secretive about it?
Relationships: Ernest Sinclaire/Main Character (Desire & Decorum)
Series: Ethereal & Ineffable [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657501
Kudos: 2





	1. The Overture

**Author's Note:**

> An AU: Persephone was raised by her single father, and has lived with all of the Mills and Marlcasters all her life. However, this world she was born into is not as stable or clear-cut as Persephone once thought her home, or her own family, to be.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **!!!WARNING: THIS IS A DARK CHAPTER, PLEASE READ THE SHORT A/N BELOW TO FIND OUT IF IT IS SOMETHING YOU ARE COMFORTABLE READING. IT IS SKIPPABLE AND WON'T HURT YOUR COMPREHENSION OF THE STORY!!!**
> 
> AGES CONTEXT: Persephone has just turned 13 years old, Briar is nearly 15, Ernest is 17 years old, Edmund is 21, and Harry is 12.
> 
> NUTCRACKER'S "THE OVERTURE" MUSIC: youtube.com/watch?v=CtOzjI7giJc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was originally the intro to part one, until I realized this part worked better as a… well, an overture. An overture in the sense of it being something I wanted Persephone to come to terms with throughout the miniseries, and thus should be addressed separately from the foundational set-up of the plot. The Nutcracker, for me anyway, has always been a coming of age story where a girl is given the decision between growing up or being a child forever. And I always projected Clara not wanting to be seen as an adult as similar to me not wanting to be objectified as I realized I, a plain child, grew up slowly and then abruptly approachably pretty by the 9th grade. I projected that change of how people treated me similarly onto De&De MC’s childhood after everyone calls her pretty whilst a majority of not-LI characters also seeing her (at least somewhat in some cases) as property, thus objectifying her. I assume that is especially true for the De&De WOC MCs having xenophobia and fetishized “exoticism” on their plate too, like Persephone being half-Chinese. This prologue was a very cathartic flashback to that reactive period of that sick feeling after my first catcall’s mixture of “I’m really that pretty for someone to yell that at me??” and “I feel so violated; I am unsafe here”. I hope that came through in my writing as something somewhat universal that you can relate to and feel empathetic towards. It’s a complex subject, so let me know if I had any failings in that ambitious endeavor, please. 
> 
> (Also, if you feel envious for not being yet/ever objectified or catcalled, I need you to know I had that complex too. Please know that it isn’t normal to feel like that, and to look into getting professional help to un-warp your comprehension of beauty like I did)

* * *

Persephone wasn’t sure exactly when it started; and when she was careful enough to not think about it for too long, she was capable of ignoring it. But recently some of the people around her have started to look at her differently. Not the people who see her daily or even weekly, nor the people she never sees (obviously), no. It’s solely the people she sees just enough to consider more than acquaintances but not enough to regard as close. People she sees monthly, yearly, “once in a while”. But that’s not often enough to recognize a pattern, surely. Persephone thought she was imagining all the repetitive glances in the corner of peoples’ eyes for a while. However, due to it having been both the Christmas season and the beginning of the end of the social season on top of that, all those people are coming back into her life to visit all like a leaky faucet to a puddle and they are definitely staring at her.

Persephone thought something about her appearance must have changed at one point, maybe. Definitely not all at once, otherwise her family would have been startled by its sudden appearance. So, ergo she deduced, it must something gradual must have happened to gain so many appraising stares from this specifically timed group of people she knew. For a while, it was fine. Whatever the change was seemed to cause good opinion because, whenever she’d catch it, there would be this slight nod of approval or a ghost of a smile at her for fulfilling _something_. However, before she could question them on such a look, they’d look back to her father or step-mother or grandfather. But with some people, the people Persephone really wanted to confront but never could get the timing right, they had an edge to their nods and smile like one might to a good horse for a bargain price.

Because of those latter folks, Persephone wasn’t sure how she felt about this implied change. When she’d see the appraisal, something inside her would both flutter and recoil. The flutter is from her heart because of the praise, naturally so. But then her mind rapidly frowns at the same act, because it’s she feels like something they have now decided she is worthy of investing. But then again there’s still the approval, it’s not like the glow of her heart would reactively stop as her stomach would churn into an uncomfortable knot. They coexisted, upsettingly so. She wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, which that in itself she didn’t mind terribly. What she absolutely despised was how baffling her own feelings on the matter was. Persephone would have hoped that’d be clear in the face of uncertainty if nothing else. But _no_. Instead, her fingers pull on the folds of her skirt, the motion silent but too full of _some_ sort of energy to be as still as her grandmother would insist.

It became especially prevalent to her whenever Lord Grandfather’s protege came to visit. _Ugh,_ Duke Tristan Richards. His judgment was especially hard to ignore. The Duke’s smile was wolfish, all canine teeth, and his gaze judged her like a man criticizes a carriage. That was important, “a carriage”. Because Persephone had made purposeful efforts able to dissect the gazes en route to dissect how she felt about them.

Luckily, or unluckily if ignorance was truly bliss, Persephone was nothing if not an observant researcher. She had figured all this out within a single afternoon when she had been reading and walking across their lawn. Duke Richards had been boasting his carriage he’d brought to her Lord Grandfather and Lady Grandmother. Persephone had taken a peek to figure out how to best avoid being roped into such a thing when she saw Duke Richards’ eyes. She saw how they looked at the carriage, met hers with a slight stumble of surprise, and then reverted back to the same look of adoration he’d had for the carriage but the gaze was still on _Persephone herself._ She felt so flushed with rabbit-like fear, she couldn’t break the eye contact in fear of him pouncing, and instead tried to hide her vulnerable underbelly behind her book. How terrifying that lack of change was. When the Duke called her over, much to her grandparents ignorant delight, he described the curls of her hair with the same adoration as the new spokes of his carriages’ wheels, the color her eyes like the golden glaze of its’ door handles, her skin as soft as its cushions inside— And thus her skills of observation snapped into a conclusion like a newly lit match in a dark void.

Most stared at her like a horse. A piece of property, a pet, yes, but at least it was a being you cared and loved for. That didn’t mean she felt pleased about their gazes, a compliment that one was _at least_ better than Duke Richards was akin to being called the tallest dwarf. A few lovely people she didn’t see nearly often enough would appraise and stare at her with affection and pride, would wave their fingers at her, and Persephone felt human again. The knots would disentangle and her heart would just glow like a star. That dichotomy in of itself set her into a state of confusion as to how to best understand her feelings, because, even though both had different reactions in their subtlety, they still came from the same act itself. It went against basic chemistry. But with the Duke, Persephone looked like _a carriage_ like in his eyes. **_A carriage_**. A piece of property, again, but _a thing_ no less. But worse still than that, it was not necessarily something that would _just_ get him from Point A to Point B (though she did suspect he saw her as that additionally), because a wheelbarrow or a simple cart could do that. The difference between those and a carriage was that a carriage was also a status symbol. A beautiful, status symbol of a _thing_.

And with that, Persephone understood suddenly then what all the attention was about.

She was growing up beautiful. She was beautiful.

Persephone’s stomach ate itself painfully slow, a failed attempt of mercy to try to get her away from the Duke as he verbally appraised her features further. She wanted to cry. She wanted to faint. Worst yet, Persephone felt pleased to be seen as beautiful enough to be so objectified and that’s what made her feel all the more disgusted with herself right then and there. She wanted to vomit on the Duke’s shoes and she wanted to run away from this horrible display of alleged affection. She wanted to vomit and cry until she was so dehydrated like a grape that wished to be a raisin, to no longer threatened to be drained of all its potential so it may be wine so lustfully swallowed.

From this day to her dying breath, Persephone is still is thankful for her Lord Grandfather’s furrowed brow of concern at seeing the wet shininess of her eyes and dismissing her immediately with the specific instruction to “please call upon your father to join the three of us”. She did. She didn’t come back. And she never loved her Lord Grandfather more than right then.

After telling her father his father’s instructions through a closed door but before he could invite her in or to come along (and before he could spot the tell-tale signs of her preemptive crying even quicker), she ran into her bedroom to sob. Further than that, she ran into her bedroom’s wardrobe, behind her dresses, where nobody could see her. She wished for the money to own locks, all the locks she could ever want, so she could lock her wardrobe shut, lock her bedroom shut, lock her home from the Duke, lock him in his carriage precautionarily like a rabid animal in a cage. 

Persephone sobbed ugly, as ugly as she could manage. Persephone gave herself permission for gasps, hiccups, snot, tear-stains, hitting and kicking the wardrobe’s walls with a short shout once she was sure no one would come running. She allowed herself the shameless feeling of overwhelming and merciless disgust, sick at the sight of the appraising eyes, sick over herself for feeling pleased with being appraised so highly, sick for the reality of being pretty being so ugly. She remembered wishing she could grow up so beautiful, like the princesses in fairytales. She wished someone had warned her about how such a gift could be chained to such a heavy iron ball, hidden from her too well in the wrapping paper until it was too late to offer it back. Oh, how Persephone wished she could go back. How she wished she could go back past her new understanding of people, past her previous confusion, past to when nobody, surely, would ever think to look at a child like that. Because she still felt like just that. She had just turned 13 years old in November and it was only early December now. To those she saw daily, they saw nothing new about her. How could people she knew so well miss such a big change? How could she, the one person who she definitely saw daily due to the living conditions of being alive, have missed it until now? How could the entire world’s perception of her change, but not her own?

The worst was how little she felt she could talk about it. Was this not an eventuality in life? She had wanted to grow up pretty and she had. What could she ask her father and Lord Grandfather to do, revert her back into a babe? Never allow another soul into their estate? What was the point of asking for the Duke, a family friend, to leave if all the more emotionally distant parts of the world must therefore surely be worse? She clutched onto her hair tightly, fighting the impulse to snatch her embroidery shears and cut it all off, self-inflict a good toss of ugliness. But she couldn’t. She trembled further, her ribcage turning into itself and stabbing her heart like it was Cesar. As much as Persephone hated it all, she had wanted to be beautiful so bad for so long– she still wanted to beautiful. 

After a lifetime of strangers confused and then a slight twist of disgust behind a practiced smile upon her being introduced as part of the family, as an heir and legitimate daughter no less, after so long of the disapproval she still wanted to be appraised as beautiful. Persephone just wanted to feel beautiful after so long of feeling ugly with her Chinese features, her mother’s features, all she had left of her dead mother, all these features her father assured her, again and again, were _beautiful_ – they finally _were_. Persephone had actually “grown into them” as Lady Grandmother had promised with a brow as crossed as fingers. It had actually _happened_ like everyone said it would or that it already was, but no one had warned her of this cost before. Why did no one warn her of such a collection before? To keep her innocent? Ignorant? To pretend they never felt this way? How could they, really, having no foreign features of their own?

She had just wanted to be beautiful without consequence. 

Persephone kicked the wardrobe’s wall, imagining the Duke’s face as he’d appraise her again. “Agh!” She kicked it again, hands tight on her ears. Persephone found a part of herself enjoying the feeling of the tears, snot, and flushed skin uglying her temporarily. She curled up into her knees, in a fetal position, wishing she could have had her beautiful mother here. She’d have words for this, surely, perfect words that Persephone needed to have heard before her mother had died.

Persephone had beauty now, but she didn’t have arrogance. Nobody had found her while she cried or cleaned herself up. Nobody asked her questions why she didn’t come back once dismissed. She knew this wasn’t likely out of respect. She had hidden herself away and thus nobody had found it necessary to confront or comfort her. She had chosen protection by isolation and she kept choosing it. 

Persephone never was taken with the Duke before but, after that day’s realization passed, she now avoided him at every distant echo of his voice. She’d turn the opposite way and back to where she had come from. She’d sit and read in the washroom until he was gone far enough that she felt safe to continue wherever she was going to (She had an incredibly new fondness for the safe sanctuary that was their washroom). She’d hurry a little faster down the hall and past the doorway of the room he was in. 

That didn’t mean Persephone didn’t get away with her avoidance smoothly; like aforementioned, Persephone was nothing if not observant. She noted that it was around this period of post-revelation that Harry started to mock the Duke with snide remarks of him being “The King of Braggarts” and that Edmund actually egged Harry on for more whispered insults for the trio to snicker at. And if she didn’t get away with such in the metaphorical sense, it was to be expected more so that she did not get away with such conduct literally either. Sometimes the Duke would duck his head down the hall and call for her to join them with that wolfish grin. Other times her grandfather would complain that he hadn’t seen her all morning ( _‘You were with the Duke all morning’_ ) and ask her to sit with them for a while. This avoidance protocol didn’t apply only to Duke Richards, just him _especially_ since Persephone now avoided all people whose gaze made her uncomfortable now that she fully understood the reason for the change and her own hatred of it. Regardless, it was a difficult hardship to avoid anyone continuously every single time in a house so quiet, with such a small family and staff, and all else that implies.

This grew into one of the reasons why Persephone loved parties even more than she had before; her family’s annual, and continuously more ambitious, Christmas party specifically. There was simply too much attention to go around and not enough time to focus on a singular aspect before being diverted. And with so many people too. In addition to of the locals of Grovershire and its surrounding area being invited, so were the socialites of London. Edgewater was only half a day’s travel from London by carriage and considering the social season continued until around February, there were many available persons who would attend such a grand event so close by. Who could pay attention to her when there was a small fireworks show to watch, performers of all kinds to marvel at, so many dances to participate in, and so much food that would demand to be tasted? There was scarcely attention to give decorum beyond the minimum. It was a time where a royal descendant and a sow farmer could share a table and hardly process the dichotomy of titles between them. So there was good reason for such a spectacle to beg for annual repetition: it simply just couldn’t be a once in a lifetime experience. And with this promise of invisible freedom quickly coming upon them as early December turned into late, Persephone absorbed every blissful, freeing hour with shameless enthusiasm. She couldn’t wait for this Christmas break.

In fact, it was the promise of this relief of hiding and of future appraisals that Persephone found she could buck up the courage to meet the present appraising stares that she and her brothers were tasked with meeting upon collecting local confirmations from the nearby estates and tenants of Grovershire personally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GIF CREDIT: @ofavonlea, tumblr
> 
> ORIGINAL STORY'S POST, on tumblr: playbychoices.tumblr.com/post/181372454756/the-nutcracker-prince
> 
> AO3 services as my back-up account for all my fics on tumblr. I post them there first, and then eventually mass back-up them here. If you want updates on my fics ASAP, send me a message on tumblr to be on my tag-list! I also post fan art there too
> 
> KUDOS ARE VERY KIND BUT REVIEWS MOTIVATE ME


	2. The Children's Gallop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NUTCRACKER'S "THE CHILDREN'S GALLOP" MUSIC: youtube.com/watch?v=rAVLJX52hI8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uncle Westonly is a rewritten version of Viscount Westonly. He is written under the comprehension of (1) The Elementalist's magical conventions and (2) the fanon theory that Westonly was faking being hard of hearing. His canon execution feels like potential wasted, so here's my Westonly who is more charming than his canon counterpart and yet still an acquired taste.
> 
> Also, yes, I directly stole _The Nutcracker and The Four Realms_ wallpaper.

* * *

“Honestly, you two.” Edmund continued walking, not looking back at his younger siblings who ran around the pathway and circled around him like over-excited kittens. “By the time we head to Ledford Park, you two shall be exhausted to the point that I would be embarrassed for you had the Sinclairs not seen you in worse states.”

“Honestly, Mundsy.” Persephone attempted to mock his tone but couldn’t pitch her voice down low enough through all her giggles. She tried to use her elder brother as a barrier to keep safe from Harry tagging her. Harry walked backwards to avoid Edmund’s forward steps with too much of a buffer. He had grown taller than Persephone despite being younger and was still unused to utilizing the new reach he had as evidenced by how he’d fail to try to reach around Edmund to tag his sister. She meanwhile was well-adjusted and much more spatially away, keeping her footing just out of Harry’s reach as she’d skip in circles around Edmund. She looked up to Edmund with a coy bat of her eyes as she’d effortlessly twirled and twisted to avoid Harry’s clumsy swipes, showing off, “By the time we are to be at Ledford, your personality will have frozen to the marrow as so that I shall be utterly devastated to be associated with someone so _dull_.”

“Oh, is that so, is it?” The dangerous glint in Edmund’s eye made Persephone bold.

“Just so.” Her shoulders threw back and she tipped her chin as high as it could go. Her smile so glossed over with adrenaline and pure happiness that she was unaware of the lack of bite in her witty snaps. “I shall have to look into the purchase of an instruction book about how to be interesting. With any luck, by reading to you aloud in shifts we’ll have you thawed out by spring. An act more so out of pity for Miss Sutton than for your tragic sake, you sorry blue devil.”

“Oo-oh-oh, _that’s it._ ” Edmund sneered good-naturedly. He nodded to Harry. “I’ll hold her.”

“Ah, fiddlesticks!” She laughed, spinning on the balls of her feet to run. But before she got to run back in the direction they came, Edmund grabbed the back of her capelet’s hood and Persephone squealed, still trying to run away despite his confines.

Harry lunged for her, and Persephone happily shrieked again, twisting in Edmund’s grasp so that his arm would be pulled in the wrong direction. Contrary to her instinctual plan of how he’d let her go, however, the rest of Edmund’s body followed her pull so his arm was still straight and his grip was even tighter. “Oh no, you don’t! This will teach you to hold your tongue, you chuck!” Edmund’s threat was made light by his laughter, and he released his sister once Harry tagged her back.

Persephone immediately twirled to chase after Harry. “No fair, Edmund helped you!”

Despite having should have known this would be the reactive outcome, that tagging meant she’d now try to tag him, Harry ran off with startled stumbles. He’d nearly trip in the arch of his turn, not yet used to the newer height of his limbs but he still narrowly outran her fingertips due to his larger stride. Harry circled so he then hid using Edmund as a shield he could run around this time.

Persephone faked left and faked right, trying to trip her brother off (who knew better), “Oh, you hellkite! You got aide and stole my tactics! The nerve!”

Edmund rolled his eyes, negating participation again as he walked forward and through his siblings, once again, alarmingly like cats circling around his legs.

Harry gripped onto Edmund’s forearm and grinned wide, his tongue between his premolars. “You were the bold one that decided to upset Edmund!”

“You were the one who suggested this game!”

“You didn’t have to play!”

Edmund allowed them to jokingly nip at each other and race around, laughing. He himself silent as he watched diligently for few minutes; his only interaction being when one would show signs of being unsteady around him, and his arms being at the ready to catch should they need him. But they didn’t. They continued to chase and run, eventually throwing snowballs instead of being tagged, and becoming more stubborn to not call an end to play as they lost more and more of their breath.

Edmund smoothed his wool breeches with the repeated wiping of his palms, before speaking aloud. “I do hope you’re grateful. You’ll miss all of this when you have become respectable adult members of society.”

Persephone stopped suddenly, twirling as she did so, against the icy terrain of the road to the last house. Harry nearly collided and almost fell on top of her, or he would have if it wasn’t for the skillful place of her hand to steady his body. Thus Persephone remained a picture of unthinking, natural grace with the exception of her loose hair in the wind and on her face that fell out due to playing’s exertion.

Edmund was startled for a second by the way her face looked, so elated and uncaring in her blind mania. It was akin to how sometimes Persephone or Harry looked alarmingly like their father, or how sometimes Harry looked like his and Edmund’s shared mother. But right now Persephone looked not quite like herself, but not quite like her father either. _‘Then… she must look like her mother right now’._ Edmund had never met her mother. He felt a flush of nonsensical humiliation over not being certain, over not knowing his step-sister’s own mother; and as thus his powerful embarrassment served as a wax seal, sealing his lips like the flap of an envelope and kept the note to himself.

Persephone laughed at Edmund’s aforementioned comment about adult society, snapping him back. Her laugh sounded like altar bells, something he could remember overhearing her father detailing as an inherited trait of her mother’s. “Nonsense, Mundsy! Why would we stop our antics when we, as adults, can finally do as we please?” Perhaps for balance or perhaps her voice’s confidence was false, Persephone clung onto Harry and he to her as she spoke.

“For decorum.” Edmund answered solemnly, “Your reputation will carry more weight in the future. You’d be wise to appreciate and protect it.”

“I’d hardly waste such energy on such trivial things like ‘decorum’ when I can finally have all the toys and books and daydreams I could desire.”

“You’ll change and understand as you get older.” Edmund shrugged, his hands behind his back.

Harry pondered aloud with a smirk of joking consideration, tapping his chin, fully aware Edmund was only 21. “So you mean to say when Harry and I are of 40 years age like too—”

Persephone gripped Harry’s sleeve, already at the ready to run from Edmund and pull Harry with her, before finishing the quip for him, “—We’ll be as terribly pedantic and sheep-like as you?”

The two mock-gasped; Harry hid his face in the side of Persephone’s hood and Persephone half her face into Harry’s chest as the two clutched onto each other all the more tightly, “Oh, the horror!”

Something in Edmund’s chest relaxed and he breathed in sharply. “Ooo-oh, you both have the nerve of a pair of _imps!_ ” Edmund reached down to grab a fistful of snow.

“And you of an unlicked cub, Mundsy!” Persephone started to run ahead of Edmund, nearing the last house’s driveway. She pulled Harry with both hands to follow her as the two gifted their older brother that universal full, boisterous laughter that every child has ever had after besting a sibling in a game of wits.

Edmund couldn’t smile wider if he tried. Harry and Persephone continued their play, dodging his unathletic throws with gleeful squeals and the happiest laughter he had heard today. He proceeded to throw snow at the two repeatedly, missing wildly, and he refused to run— but participating nonetheless. “Shameless cowards! The both of you! Come back here!”

Harry and Persephone barreled up the pathway of Grovershire’s last home, their favorite one. It was a quaint, little house. It looked like the home of a friendly witch; made of aged, warped wood as the ivy and other plants attempted to grow up and overtake it in the kindest sort of conquest. There were still flowers blooming with persistence and determination to color the snow with a gorgeous floral pattern. The house-shop had such an effect on its surroundings that the snowfall even gently floated down like petals. The world felt a little less cold, the snow even losing the crunch under their feet in place for the softness of powdered sugar instead. There was the scent of something glorious baking starting to fill their nostrils and travel down to their stomachs. The home just oozed warmth. Though the sun was blotted out due to the nature of winter, the home itself dripped like a handful of honey with the feeling lazy, cozy sunbeams.

Harry and Persephone raced faster towards it, hands as intertwined as possible with mittens. Persephone ran forth with the quick, grace of a rabbit as she helped steady Harry’s newborn fawn-like legs. Not letting her carry all of his weight, what Harry had in clumsy awkwardness he made up for in enthusiasm and reach. They ran up the porch’s stairs and a snowball (finally) hit Harry. It hit his free elbow, making it twitch away wildly and end up just in place to grab onto the overhang’s support column, helping the two better turn and helping throw Edmund’s aim off as he throws a snowball that hits the swinging sign that hangs off the support.

It’s a thin, black, gemstone-like sign with design as a tribute to Scherenschnitte, or paper-cut silhouette illustrations. With a mixture of floral and tracery-like border framing it, in the center of a large piece of negative space was a scene. There was a girl with curls held by a bow and a white, lacey apron, one hand delicately just in front of her mouth in surprise. In front of her was a marionette dressed like boyish Robin Hood, feathered cap and all, as his strings ascended far above him except for the slight reveal of the hand controller and the marionettist’s giant hand to direct the life-size puppet bowing to her. Above the hand was a thick black strip, thicker than any other side of the border, that read “Toy Shop” in illustrious cursive like the font you always imagine ‘Once Upon a Time’ to be written in. As magical as the half-store, half-home was, the sign by far was the most enchanting part of it. 

Upon it being hit by Edmund’s snowball, all three siblings froze in fear. The sign rocked back and forth haphazardly, whistling like a panicked bird. As beautiful as the sign was, the hooks it hung upon were the most rudimentary thing about it. Time felt like molasses as the sign swung so high up that it freed itself from its hooks, flying in the air. With all the intricate detail of the lace, the curls, the feather, foliage-esque tracery, and more… It was obvious upon sight how brittle the sign must be.

The brothers froze, paralyzed and incapable of even breathing as they watched.

Persephone, meanwhile, saw a vision of a potential future. One where the blame, as decided by her step-mother, was her’s as her beloved toymaker wept over his beautiful, broken sign. And, in reaction to that heart-stopping fear, she leapt forward. There was no fence or barring between the pillars of the overhand, so she ran straight towards the edge and jumped off the edge like a diving board, both hands outstretched. Persephone could barely register that it was her name being called just as her mitten-covered hands grasped as tightly onto the signs thin borders as possible without her individual fingers, pulling the sign close to her chest just before she landed in the snow on her shoulder.

“Oof!” Persephone held the sign closer upon impact, her shoulder complaining immediately.

“Persey!” Edmund and Harry rushed forward towards her. Harry jumped into the snow after her, accidentally stumbling onto his knees and collapsing into her with another “Oof!”. Just after, Edmund grabbed at her armpits, pulling them both upright into a sitting position as a result. Immediately, he dusted the snow off her shoulders and her hair. Harry squished her cheeks between both his hands comically, “Persey, are you injured?”

“Yess” Persephone twisted her face away from him, “Your elbow punctured my lungs.”

“She’s fine.” Harry got up and pulled Persephone up with him.

“Women should not throw themselves into such terrible weather. Your weaker immune system will cause you to catch your death by cold, Persey. Be smart.” Edmund scolded without any bite, tucking her copper curls back into the pocket of her hood before pulling it back onto her head.

“ _Honestly_.” Persephone moved away from him as well, ignoring the wince of temporary soreness in her shoulder and allowing her navy blue hood to fall back down. “You’re both as awful as Lady Grandmother. Have some faith in me! I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you.” She held the sign up to inspect closely, wiping it with her mittens and coat sleeve as needed. “We’re lucky you didn’t break the poor thing, Edmund! It is so thin. Its delicate pieces could have broken upon impact without intervention at a minimum.”

“Of course, it’s my fault.” Edmund sighed, stretching his shoulders back.

“Of course, it was your snowball and your bad aim. Persey and I were not throwing anything.”

“Children throwing things? Perish the thought.” A fourth voice, much more raucous and well-worn than the other three, penetrated with thick sarcasm. “That is what you said, is it not? Or was it knowing things? Children rarely _know_ things.”

The three children turned to the man exiting the house-shop’s front door. His hands were buried in his armpits as he held his woolen greatcoat tightly around him. His beaver hat was crooked and rashly placed on his head. And there was a rather curious layer of snow weighing heavily on his shoulders and the top of his cap. His hairline receded to nearly being off his scalp, diagonally covered by the cap. His hair from there on was thin but long and in wispy waves that curled around his rosy cheeks and jawline; he hadn’t re-tied his ponytail in several days. Bordering that were his sideburns which were thick and curly; they were followed shortly by his beard, trimmed neatly once a week ago but now a bit ragged and starting to become uneven. He looked as disorganized as the landscaping of his home, but his clothing was as bright and magical as the flowers. His greatcoat was the richest, purest shade of violet wool any of them had seen, his clothes were pinstriped in bright lines of magenta and baby blue, his beaver cap was dyed a fiery orange like fire. All of that paled, however, to the sparkle of his blue-gray eyes. They were set just behind his crooked pair of gold-rimmed glasses and an equally as crooked grin going the opposite way, altogether making the man himself seem just as otherworldly as his building.

Edmund kept his lips tightly together, his brow furrowed with disdain, forcing a smile and bowed slightly. “Mr. Westonly—”

“Uncle Westonly!” Persephone and Harry ran towards the old man, already laughing and his arms outstretched.

“Lady Persephone and Lord Harry,” He stumbled back a little bit at the strength of their hug, but his smile didn’t stutter at all. He rubbed their backs and bent forward to fully embrace the two as much as they were to him: with every fiber of joy in their bodies. “Merry Christmas!”

“We’re not even of relation to him, call the poor man by his proper suffix…” Edmund grumbled under his breath as he walked up the porch. He stood behind the group hug, tapping his shoe. “Mr. Westonly, we were sent by our parents to ask for confirmation concerning your presence at our annual Christmas party this year.”

Westonly raised his head, the hug separating somewhat but all arms were still connected, “Mr. Marlcaster! Merry Christmas! How are you, my boy?”

Edmund’s fingers twitched at those last two words. “Fine, sir.” Edmund cleared his throat and spoke with more volume. “Our—”

“‘Wine, brrr’? Oh! Yes, of course, I have mulled wine inside. How terribly inconsiderate of me, children, let’s go inside. It is terribly frigid outside, come in, come, some mulled wine will warm you all right up.” Westonly turned around and used his hands on Harry and Persephone’s backs to push them into his house. “Come, come, Mr. Marlcaster, I’ll serve you first since you asked so nicely. But then you must tell me how you are! Deal?” Westonly’s laugh cackled like a fire’s crackle.

As soon as Edmund was sure his reaction would be out of sight, he threw his head back with a quiet groan before following, closing the door behind him.

“Uncle Westonly, I caught your sign after Mundsy nearly broke it with a snowball.” Persephone bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “You simply must get more secure fastenings. You said last time that it was magic afterall!”

“Ah, Lady Persephone, you know well that I cannot hear you if you are not facing me.” Westonly helped her out of her winter coat and capelet, well-worn navy blue with a duller brass-like dye of its fur trim. She looked at the subtle golden pinstripes of her Uncle’s greatcoat with quiet wonder, they glittered in the light and become invisible when startled by the fold’s shade. Idly, Persephone wondered how he kept his clothes so bright after so much use.

She spun around, her dress swirling around her as she did so and she held his sign up to him. “I caught it! Before it fell!”

Westonly mouthed some sort of repetition before asking, “It fell and you caught it?”

Persephone nodded enthusiastically.

Westonly put an arm around her tightly and took the sign back gingerly. “Ah, Lady Persephone, thank you so kindly for your heroics. I adore this sign greatly, it’s a true treasure to me. I’m immeasurably thankful that you saved it for me.”

Persephone pulled on his sleeve to look at her and added, “You simply must get better fastenings.”

“Happenings? What is happening?” Westonly pursed his lips together and rocked his head back and forth, “I suppose I am alright. It’s awfully lonely during Christmas this time of year.”

“Actually, that’s what we—” Edmund stood by the door and was still not out of his coat.

“No, I said fastenings!”

“Ah, fastenings! I suppose I should look into a more secure system for my magical sign, right you are, my Lady.” Westonly petted at her hair until it morphed into a cup of her cheek. Persephone leaned into it, Uncle Westonly’s hand feeling incredibly warm against her wind-burned face. Westonly rubbed his thumb against the apple of it affectionately before looking up at Edmund. “Mr. Marlcaster, why don’t you go get the mulled wine? A weary old man like myself would like to rest and surround himself with youthful energy. That is, f you don’t mind terribly.”

Edmund sighed and nodded quietly.

“That’s the good lad!” Westonly led Persephone into the living room, Harry taking off the last of his wet things and running to duck under Westonly’s other arm and be led as well.

Westonly’s living room was what Persephone imagined a child’s heaven to be like. Which made sense seeing as that it was Uncle Westonly’s main place of business. It was covered in toys, rocking horses and tin soldiers and marionettes, yes, but by far the most produced and most sought-after items of Westonly’s were the delicate kind that children and adult bought alike to wind up and watch unfold. There were mechanical swans flapping their wings in the water of a cup big enough for tea; there was a wind-up witch marching around a tower as a princess sang to her lover bobbing up and down in the bushes; there was an apprentice helping his wizard friend collect stardust within a grand clock; there was an automated man painting a woman and her baby in a slow-moving windmill. Everything about the home was cozy, with plush carpets and soft pillows and sofas to sit in and watch the mechanics of the toys work in ceaseless beauty. There were no windows in this room too, leaving one at the complete loss of time upon entering it. And yet the whole room to be lit with a warm yellow glow as caused by the fireplace, which was always brighter than any fire Persephone had ever seen.

Westonly sat down on one of the couches, the two children helping him sit before sitting on the floor at his feet, each grabbing a pillow. Westonly readjusted himself with a groan. He placed the sign on the couch. “I’m so glad Mr. Marlcaster suggested a sit with some mulled wine. These old bones of mine don’t let me exert myself like they used to anymore.”

Harry put a hand on the elderly man’s knee, “Are you going to be alright, Uncle Westonly?”

Westonly patted Harry’s hand, “Of course, my boy, it will take more than a challenging day such as today to slow me down for long. Just let me catch my breath as you tell me things, anything.”

Persephone tugged on Westonly’s pant leg to look at her, “Father is putting on our annual Christmas party!” She snickered upon hearing Edmund’s distant ‘Oh, thank the Lord’ in the kitchen.

Westonly whispered, processing, “An annual…? Oh, your Christmas party?” He sat up a bit straighter, “Is that tonight? It can’t be.” Westonly wagged his finger, his crooked smile returning jestfully. “I distinctly recall your annual Christmas party was last year.”

“I can distinctly recall you using the joke just as annually,” Harry whispered with a grin, purposefully trying to be unheard. “You need new material, you lovable old coot.”

Persephone elbowed Harry’s side. “You’re being unnecessarily rude.” She pulled on her Uncle’s hand excitedly, “That’s what ‘annually’ means! Oh, you must come, Uncle Westonly!”

“Is it?” Westonly gave an evasive, teasing expression before shrugging. “Oh my, I am getting senile in my old age… So it is, in fact, tonight?”

“It start—” Persephone cut herself off to shorten it better. “Yes! At dusk!”

“And there’s a musk? Oh dear, I suppose I could clean in here more often. Forgive me, my Lady.”

Persephone and Harry clutch their sides in giggles. “No, no!” Persephone leans up to Westonly, “Dusk!”

“Ducks?” Westonly smiled coyly, “I like ducks, eating or not. Though I assume you surely must mean the eating kind, considering the live ones must have flown elsewhere for some sunshine. I must say, I do wish I could join them… Will we be joining them?”

“No, you have to yell like this, Persey. It’s at dark!” Harry leaned up as well. “At dark! _At dark,_ Uncle Westonly!”

“Ah, ‘at dark’, the party is tonight at dark. How did I get musk from ‘at dark’? I apologize. At any rate, yes, thank you for the reminder, I shall still attend your family’s annual party.” Westonly tapped his chin and Persephone shrugged, still laughing, and petted at the two children’s hair. “If it’ll be at dark then you two must stay safe, alright? I can’t be everywhere at once, as hard as I try, you must understand.”

“It’ll be at our own house, how could we be hurt?” Harry muttered to his sister.

“Mmmn, there are multiple ways to be.” Westonly said, and at Harry’s surprised look, he continued. “Well, there are multiple ways for one’s own spouse to be treated ‘like dirt’. What relevance that has with the topic at hand, however, Harry, I may never know how.”

Edmund came out with a tray of the glasses of mulled wine. “After this drink, Mr. Westonly, I’m afraid we will have to depart back home.” He ignored his younger siblings’ pointed glares as he handed them their smaller servings.

Mr. Westonly just nodded, petting the children’s hair for a moment longer before leaning back and taking his own glass. “Ah, shame. After my fourth wife’s passing, I have missed hearing the sounds of other people in such a lonely house.”

“You’d still miss them even if you had a fifth.” Harry snickered just before taking a sip, nearly spilling his drink on himself out of distracted hubris upon hearing Edmund chuckle.

Mr. Westonly stared directly at Harry, his eyelids half closed and looking at Harry with examination like he was an unloved, malfunctioning toy that Westonly should really figure out to fix. It was a chilling, quiet glare. Harry pointedly kept drinking (or else was quite good at miming that he was drinking, he didn’t have a large serving afterall), purposefully avoiding talking.

“Oh, oh!” Persephone tugged on Westonly pant leg, “If you’re lonely, you should come with us to light the tree and open presents right now.”

Westonly blinked rapidly, “Pardon, my Lady?”

“Come home with us!” Persephone moved to sit next to her favorite Grovershire resident on the couch rather than the ground. She moved the sign onto her lap so she could sit where it was. “For tree lighting! And presents! Now!”

Westonly squeezed Persephone closer to him for a moment, “Truly?”

“I’ll even carry your presents for us!” Harry said, causing Westonly to laugh until he was wheezing.

Edmund’s eyes rolled so hard that his head rolled with them, but he still had the ghost of a smile. He tapped his foot impatiently, having finished his purposely small serving of mulled wine in two sips. “Young Mr. Sinclair was completely justified in dubbing you as the epitome of a ‘hellkite’, baby brother, honestly.” He tapped his foot louder and tried to catch Persephone’s eye to remind her that she hadn’t touched her mulled wine, but she ignored him. Harry threw Persephone’s abandoned pillow at Edmund’s knee, and Edmund raised his leg with a cheeky laugh upon avoiding it. “You’re such a child, Harry.”

“You’re such—” Harry quick-drew the pillow he was sitting on and threw it at Edmund’s other leg before his raised one could settle back down. Edmund stumbled a bit and breathed in sharply, glaring at Harry and his dumb smirk. “— _a_ _bore_ , Mundsy.”

Westonly’s laugh lessened, coughing at certain gasps of it, but the smile on his face remained all the same. He hugged Persephone a bit closer to his side. “Thank you, my dear, for the offer. I’m afraid I have other tasks I simply must get done before attending your party tonight, so coming earlier would only harbor some…” He mused for a moment. “…justified contempt.”

Persephone’s bottom lip jutted out in a pout, “Who could ever hold contempt for you, Uncle Westonly?”

“Anyone with a limit to their patience and a lack of humor.” Harry mumbled looked to Edmund, who had taken to collecting the glasses from his siblings, even Persephone’s untouched one.

“Hey!”

“We have plenty of mulled wine _at_ _home_.” Edmund whispered to her.

Persephone whispered back in a melodic tune, “Back at home with Miss. Theresa Sutton?”

Edmund’s cheeks flushed red and, to avoid giving an answer (which ergo made it into one), just quickly paced back into the kitchen with the glasses with his shoulders high and back hunched.

Persephone giggled at that, swinging her feet in the air, and hugged Uncle Westonly’s arm. Sitting so close to him, she was relieved in not having to yell so loudly. “I do hope we’ll see you soon, Mr. Westonly?”

“Ah, my dear, I shall come in my absolute best,” He nudged Harry’s knee with his foot, “and _with_ my absolute best.”

“My offer to help you carry our gifts still stands!” Harry wagged his finger jokingly, “Call upon me at any time! You always do bring the best presents, Uncle Westonly.”

“Come with inventions,” Persephone tugged on his sleeve, “I love your mechanics, Uncle Westonly, please find the time and myself tonight to tell me all about how your latest piece works, please, I beg of you.”

Her words painted a ray of sunshine onto his face, this smile brighter than all before. “A girl after my own heart. In that case, you shall monopolize all my time tonight if I have any say on the topic.” Persephone squealed happily, hugging his arm, which Westonly returned with his free one. Westonly glanced at Edmund who was returning with a nervous look in his eye. “I suppose you must be leaving soon, Mr. Marlcaster? With your siblings in tow?”

Edmund nodded, tapping his fingers against his leg. “We had just needed confirmation of your attendance.”

“Dependence? My boy, I’d say you’re quite the opposite. No need to ask me to affirm anything for you, I have full faith in your mind and capabilities.”

Edmund thought about correcting, and then decided it’d be easier to just let it go. He nodded passively and made move to go grab the necessary coats that had just been put up instead.

Once Edmund was out of earshot, Harry leaned close to Westonly’s ear and asked in the loudest stage-whisper, “If you will mostly busy yourself teaching Persey mechanics tonight, please tell me a new story of yours at during a good pausing point.”

Persephone’s straightened up and patted Uncle Westonly’s leg excitedly, “Oh, yes! Please do! All the fairytales at home have started to become so dull.” Harry made a faux offended face at hearing her say that, a hand over his heart and all. Persephone reminded her this wasn’t the place to give him a gentle, joking kick. “I’d love to hear something new too, Uncle Westonly!”

“Ah, uh,” Westonly patted Persephone’s back to help her up and in turn leaned closer to Harry, “What kind of story, Lord Harry?”

“Hmm… Something about adventure, fantastical places, a terrible beast, and, oh, soldiers! Or knights!” Harry pulled at Persephone’s hands to join him faster. She quickly placed the sign upright against the free armrest of the couch. “Especially if you would bring some as props!”

“Hmm. Prop soldiers…? A soldier in a fairytale…” Westonly tapped his armrest, his eyes distant within the shadow of his brow. His voice was a quiet echo, distant and not quite there with the children, as though he wasn’t aware that his words were being spoken aloud. The way he spoke made Persephone think of something grave was happening just beyond what Uncle Westonly was willing to give. She was hyperaware suddenly of the gravity of relief, of a break, from such hidden turmoil that she and her siblings might be gifting him. She felt a rush of shame at her brothers’ behavior. “That just might work…”

Once Persephone was standing beside Harry, he jumped back thus startling Persephone out of her worries. He raised one hand above his arm flamboyantly and the other clutched at an imaginary sword aimed at her. “Yes! Soldiers, knights, any sort of honor-bound heroes engaged in a daring battle of good against evil!”

Persephone was impassioned by Harry and her honest desire to lift some of the burdens from Westonly. She laughed her best villain laugh boisterously, channeling her inner Countess Henrietta who had a truly evil one. She mimicked Harry’s flamboyant movements as the two circled each other in the room. “Your move, brother!”

“You shall regret betraying our people, you cur!” Harry used his foot to throw into the air one the pillows he had previously thrown at Edmund. He caught it and threw it at his sister like a discus. “Aha!”

Persephone caught it and shot Harry a shit-eating grin.

Harry’s smile twitched and his face paled. “Oh, no.” It was in that moment that Harry knew he had made a grave error.

Persephone ran at him with it, whacking her brother’s shoulder, “Have at thee!”

“Tactical retreat, men! Tactical retreat!” Harry laughed, running away from her, from the living room and ran down the hall and past the kitchen, towards the front door. Westonly’s uproarious laughter grew quieter and more distant after a while.

“What of your alleged honor, you lily-faced coward?” Persephone cackled as she chased him, pillowed armed and ready still, batting at him whenever she was able.

“Eep!” Harry had a large smile on his face, but it was the kind that would see a fire blaze around him and think the hellish living conditions to still be acceptable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—!” Harry ran to hide behind Edmund by the coat-rack, who groaned.

Edmund had his great-coat and top-hat on, and was holding his siblings’ things in both hands as they ran around him in circles. “Oh, must you do this _again?_ ”

Harry snatched his coat and his cap filled with his mittens and scarf from Edmund before running off towards the door. “—There is great honor in acknowledging one’s faults and limitations, I’ll have you know! Ah!” He shuddered upon allowing the cold in, but at seeing Persephone continue to chase him, Harry smile persisted past his chattering teeth. He applied his winter things as he ran. “Tactical retreat, men, tactical retreat! We live to fight another day!” He ran out the front door, leaving it wide open behind him.

Persephone slammed the door shut between them. She pressed her back against it to hold Harry back from potentially trying to enter back in too easily when he’d realize her trick. Edmund walked over and handed her her things. “I love Harry dearly, but honestly.” She snickered to Edmund who took her place in leaning against the door. “Our beloved hellkite was asking for it, don’t you think Mundsy?”

“I agree, he has enough bursting energy to shame lightning.” Edmund leaned his weight on the door. “Now, do please get ready, Persephone. Quickly now.”

Persephone refastened her navy blue coat and capelet, tightening the collar as far as it would go so the fur would be against her neck. She pressed her soft, pine-colored scarf to her nose for a long breath before putting it on. It still smelled heavily of the mint sachet bags her father had given her. Specifically, the ones he gifted her to remind her of him when he was away for the social season, Parliament, and the like. Persephone loved the smell, definitely and purely because of the association of her father. However, her sachet bags missed the constant scent of ink, old books, and that familiar spicy sting of pepper that was in his essence; but still, the scent of mint that traveled with him as well, due to his own sachet bags in his own drawers, was comforting. Her smile hurt her cheeks at the thought of greeting him. Persephone hated to say goodbye to her father in any capacity. However, saying hello to him, no matter how many times, was always amongst the highlights of her day. So it was at least a bit of an even trade. She couldn’t wait to run the rest of the way after Ledford Park, snatch confirmations before her brothers caused too much insanity in teasing Ernest, then barrel into her father’s arms for another hug. Persephone couldn’t wait to get home to celebrate the festivities and cling to her dear father, she just couldn’t. She felt abuzz with renewed energy at the thought, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she hurried in getting ready.

Before putting on her capelet’s hood she made sure every curl of her hair was as much covered as possible. Thank goodness it was easier thanks to bow in her hair holding most of her hair back in place. Her hair could get as wild as her and thus, without the bow, it’d be much more difficult to collect otherwise. She didn’t want her hair to get damp and then catch a cold during the holidays! What a travesty that would be! Illness would put a stopper in all their party plans, and Persephone was determined to not give her step-mother more reason to be disappointed with her. As an added precaution to that, she blew warm air onto her palms just before putting on her mittens as fast as she could, wanting to trap the heat.

Edmund’s foot tapped as he waited. He expected for her to put on her coat’s matching muff; but she kept it over just one forearm like a bracer, instead of as she looked down the hall.

“Uncle Westonly, Edmund and I are about to be off? Harry’s already out… Will you please see us out so we may have our goodbyes until the party tonight?” She didn’t hear a reply, so she called out with more volume for the sake of his failing hearing. “Uncle Westonly? We’re leaving! I won’t ask you to come out into the frigid cold, just to the door!” Persephone raised an eyebrow at Edmund, who shrugged at the lack of reply again.

“Perhaps we should just go. We have our confirmation. Mother will want us home soon.”

Persephone huffed at her bangs with a sharp breath and put her hood down. “Don’t be daft. Uncle Westonly deserves a proper goodbye. And Countess Henrietta can wait as long as necessary and then some as far as I am concerned.” Persephone leaned into Edmund’s personal space with an accusatory finger and a hushed whisper. “You just don’t like him.”

Edmund bent down and whisper-yelled, “Persey!” Edmund couldn’t see Westonly, so he assumed the old man couldn’t hear him, making him bold. Just in case, however, he kept his voice low. “What do you want me to say to that? That you’re right? That unlike some false saints,” He gestured to her vaguely with his lips pursed to the side of his face, “I’m self- and socially-aware enough to admit that his near non-existent hearing negatively affects conversation? Because, I’ll have you know, it isn’t a source of mystical charm or an opportunity for comedy like some pretend it to be. It’s a disability, Persephone. He’ll be an invalid within a decade’s time, easily. It’s an embarrassment and a tragedy, and we should avoid interacting with both when it does not involve ourselves or our own. It’s justly so that I thus feel a rush of embarrassment at second hand. It’s not fair to Mr. Westonly to push for him at such a frail state to indulge your imagination’s laws that such deterioration implies that he is an enchanted, magical, elderly mentor for you to play with so recklessly. He’s just a man, Persephone. And that’s not a bad thing.” Edmund straightened his spine back up and straightened his coat of folds. “So feel free to insist on politeness. But don’t be so agitated towards a negation when it is appropriate.”

Persephone bit back her initial comeback to tell Edmund that what he was saying was a cruel parrot of his mother, but such a stab was too sharp and too deep to jest about. She hesitatingly stayed within comfortable teasing. “You probably have a distaste for people whose need for a cane negatively affects your walk too.” She stuck her tongue out for good measure.

“Persey, calm. He’s not a biological uncle, you and Harry just created that familial fantasy; just like everything else about his personality you have projected onto him. Therefore, you are not related and you are not growing deaf? Perish the thought that you’re getting hysterical for matters that don’t concern you. _Again_.” Edmund rolled his eyes and tugged on his cuffs to make sure no skin was showing. “I’ll go find Harry.”

“That’s an avoiding digression from the point, you lack patience for all other things in life because you just want to seize Miss Sutton instead of the day.” Persephone mimicked the roll of his eyes.

Edmund slammed the door behind him, causing audible snow to fall off the roof and shingles.

Persephone’s pout jutted out further, indignant and irritated. She still continued in a hissed whisper, despite his absence, “You’re so accommodating to your cruel mother it’s nearly a weakness, but not for the common man? I expected better, Mundsy.”

Persephone turned around back towards the living room, she looked into the empty kitchen on her way over. “Uncle Westonly?” He was no longer anywhere in sight within in either public rooms of his home-store combination. Persephone tugged on the folds of her skirt to straighten. “Uncle Westonly?” She ventured towards the door on the opposite end of the living room’s front hall with some hesitation.

She’d never gone past his living room before. That must be the private, more home-like section. The living room-shop was public and was the only room for customers, really. The kitchen was public to an extent, for when he felt like hosting. Beyond those two rooms and the porch, Uncle Westonly’s home was a mystery to her; and all that mystery was behind a single redwood door. She had never been invited to go past there, in all those years of her and her family knowing him, and that was likely for a reason. She’d seen the sides of his house, it was likely just a large bedroom-workshop or a small bedroom and small workshop. Private areas for sleep and secret failures. Persephone could respect that, surely. Hoping to avoid such invasion of his privacy, she yelled out as loud as she could from the center if the living room, “Uncle Westonly! We’re leaving! Come say goodbye!”

She heard something fall: something heavy, something glass.

Persephone’s mind silenced itself into a blank state of terror. She came rushing in towards the sound, launching the door open, “Uncle Westonly!” Upon opening the door, however, she was scared away from rushing into the threshold past it.

It led to a long hallway covered in bright, blood-red wallpaper with an owl pattern on it. Such a detail normally wouldn’t have deferred her but… She glanced back at the living room and the front hallway’s exit connected to it. It, and the kitchen nestled between them, also had exposed wood across its walls: large logs as tall as her head, convex bulges in the wall like a pregnant mother. There was no wallpaper of any kind in the public parts of the house. Why did this hallways have wallpaper? Persephone glanced at the beautiful bulbed lighting that lit the hallway. Uncle Westonly had electricity? That’s so expensive. And why was it not wired to the rest of the home? It wasn’t even doing a good job at lighting the hall. All the light did defer the darkness of shadows, the expanse of the spattered lit areas was the size of and of the strength of a doily. The floor of the hallway and its crown molding was a dark wood, treated and nearly black in color. Everything— the crown moldings’ every ridge, the beaks and claws— and even the feathers of the painted owls, and the fisherman-like hooks that made up lights’ holders— they were all dangerously sharp, like a butcher’s knife. And what wasn’t, like the cranium-shape of the bulbs, made Persephone grab at her own throat to make sure the ghost of a blade threatening to decapitate her was just her imagination. She swallowed thickly and wondered if perhaps the lightbulbs were souls of children who had betrayed Westonly, invaded into the privacy of his home.

Persephone dimly remembered, _‘It’s not fair to Mr. Westonly to push for him at such a frail state to indulge your imagination’s laws that such deterioration implies that he is an enchanted, magical, elderly mentor for you to play with so recklessly. He’s just a man, Persephone. And that’s not a bad thing.’_

Right. Right, Mundsy was right, of course. Persephone took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her hand dropped from the doorframe. Uncle Westonly was just a man. A man she knew well. He wasn’t dangerous or anything. He was a just man. And Edmund was right, maybe, about her projection of him having a certain amount of mysticism being misguided. He was just a man. He probably just bought the house like this. He was eccentric and the weird architecture probably made it cheaper. …Probably.

Persephone took another glance at what was behind her again for good measure… It really was like a different house. The cabin portion she knew and loved was a warm mango color, where its only light came from the fireplace and candles. Light was everywhere, it colored everything, it was safety encompassed within a room. The exposed wood was convexed outwards, worn out with love but still at mild risk of splinters, nothing to worry about. Meanwhile, the wood inside this new hallway was so flat, smooth, so decorative and pristine that Persephone almost didn’t want to step on it. She didn’t want to dirty such a clean thing with her footprints. It was the sort of new cleanliness where adults would yell at her for tracking remnants of snow and mud so soon, where it needed to be looked at and not lived in. It was for adults’ admiration, not for children’s. If the living room-shop was really so akin to a childish heaven, this secret hallway section was a child’s hell. While the living room had a companionable silence and a hearth-like warmth to it, this new part of the house was like being in the eye of an inferno where the silence was fatal as it’s fiery red walls sucked the oxygen out of your being. It would be a deafeningly silent and painful way of being burned alive.

“Uncle Westoonlyyy?” Persephone tugged at her skirts, flapping the excess back and forth. She looked back towards the front hallway, the front door, where her brothers were waiting, where she’d get to run to her father. She looked back towards the intimidatingly terrifying hall before her.

_‘Feel free to insist on politeness. But don’t be so agitated towards a negation when it is appropriate.’_

Persephone thought of leaving, she did, really. The more she looked at this new hallway, the more unnerved she got. This was a small cabin, she thought maybe a bedroom and workshop combination was back here because the outside implied there wasn’t room for anything further than one room more. But this wasn’t just a hallway, it was a T-shape, with four doors down its side and one at its crossroads. This hallway and whatever was beyond it and all those doors shouldn’t exist. There was not even a reason for this hall to be so long, surely, there was only a single door at the center of that crossroad (she tried not to imagine a terror of whatever was hiding just behind the halls’ corners). The architecture was more than just weird. It didn’t make sense. She shouldn’t go down this hall.

But Persephone thought of Uncle Westonly potentially being hurt and too old to save himself. She thought of him just beyond one of those doors. She thought of monsters and demons and murderous attacks beyond those doors. She thought of her father, Lady Grandmother, Lord Grandfather, Harry, Edmund, Briar, Mrs. Daly, and Ernest. She thought of herself dying and never seeing any of them again. She thought what she’d want a girl to do after she’d heard one of them get hurt just beyond a strange door.

She took a slow step past the threshold, and then another, another. Soon she was walking. Just barely though.

Persephone’s hands clutched onto her coat’s skirt with white knuckles. “Uncle Westonly?” She whispered, “Are you there?” Upon walking closer and closer to the end of this mysterious hallway, she noticed the owl wallpaper shifting gradually. It wasn’t magic, no, it was a design choice— the wallpaper had a section of morphism and then completely changed. It wasn’t magic. He was just a man. But still. A wallpaper that went from owls to mice? Rats? Uncle Westonly was eccentric, yes, that was something Persephone adored about him. But she didn’t know how to feel about this though. Persephone could feel the cold draft of the outside tickle her skin, but still, sweat beaded down her temple and the hair on the back of her neck and forearms stood on end. Addendum: she didn’t know how to feel about this other than unnerved, other than afraid. Persephone decided to not go beyond the door at the crossroads. She decided to not even look at the connecting hallway’s either ends. If this door was locked, she was going home.

“Uncle Westonly, this is not funny in the slightest. Are you injured?” Upon coming to the door, Persephone saw a key still within the handle. That didn’t make sense. Persephone had only seen a locked door once in her life, and only to the front door in their London residence. Door locks were just a symbol of status. Why not just keep valuables in a locked cabinet or safe? Why apply locks to doors? Much less inner doors? That would include a lot of keys to make for a lot of servants. It was practical to have locked cabinets and drawers, keep keys with the master of the house, have the servants ask for it and bring it back. That made sense. Door locks were just a dumb exercise of wealth, there was a reason why they only applied to front doors and no other doors of a home. So then why did this door, inside a house, have one? What did Uncle Westonly have behind here to keep someone out? Or, worse, keep in?

She thought about running again. It’d be so easy to run back to her brothers. They must be missing her by now anyway.

Persephone took in a breath, thought of Uncle Westonly’s kindness and how he had not earned her distrust, and she turned the handle. “Uncle Westonly?”

A rush of something glittery and gold flew out from the door and into her face. “Ah!” Persephone’s eyes shut and her arm flew up to protect herself reflexively.

“AaaAAaahh! L-Lady Persephone!” A clatter of something wooden fell loudly.

She opened her eyes, blinking a couple of times before really able to process what she was looking at. She hadn’t opened the door much due to fear, but the large crack she had made did allow her to see Uncle Westonly, just fine and dandy as can be, except for his squirming. On the floor was a large broken glass tube with no bottom to it. It was the length of her arm, with a bulge in the middle. Or so she assumed considering it was all broken pieces of glass now. That would explain the heavy crash of glass. But, curiously, on the floor was also a dustpan and broom. The dustpan had only some of the glass in it. Dropped. Had he been startled? In the midst of the mess was Uncle Westonly, his knees were bent so he was leaning backwards onto a workshop table behind him. One hand was gripping the edge of the table and his other behind him, hiding something, she was sure. His smile was crooked and shaky, his breath heaving, and looking awfully sweaty and weird in his stance. Ah, so then the broom and dustpan had been dropped and abandoned for something more important, something directly behind him.

Persephone could respect privacy but she hated such blatant, specific secrets. She didn’t know Uncle Westonly kept secrets; he shared all his tricks of how everything worked with her before. Persephone squinted at him and thought of keeping her arms up, covering her vitals, before she remembered who she was. An adorable little girl, one that he liked.

“I… I heard glass.” She said in a soft whisper, as pitiful as she could, rubbing around her eyes. She winced slightly, concerned at how none of that glitter was coming off onto her fingers… No, that’s a concern for when she had access to a mirror. For now, she had to focus. Surely he’d want to shoo her out of his private room, especially one with secrets, and if he was going to make her leave she’d make him have to do it physically. He was going to move and reveal whatever he was hiding. Persephone took a step inside. Her brow was furrowed as she began to look around inside, keeping one eye on Westonly for movement. She kept her voice quiet, a perfectly ignorant damsel in distress who surely wouldn’t ever use such a label for cunning, manipulative reasons. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Uncle Westonly…”

There was so much in this room, so much clutter of everything, everything dangling, everything gold and glinting in the light but their actual form shapeless in the shadows so far above her. She couldn’t even the ceiling itself, it was so dark up there. But there was glass, colored glass, hanging like mobiles alongside the gold chains and crowns and scepters. There were sketches pinned to the walls: doll designs, drawings of humans with dotted lines across their anatomy, a drawing dissection of a spherical thing labeled an, uh, “Aristotle’s essen—

Uncle Westonly surged forward, pushing her out the door. She snapped her head to catch the glimpse of the something he must have been hiding. It was a thing she didn’t know, something that floated. It was in a glass jar with a cork lid. It was something beautiful with a large white pupil and rainbow edges, incapable of staying one color for long, with a stardust-like trail behind as it bobbed up and down within the glass. But it was slow and it was dim, as transparent as lace. Wai- Was it dying? Was it— Westonly shut the door behind him, and Persephone heard something scrape against metal clumsily. He must have taken the key out.

“You heard glass? Oh, my dear, how kind of you to check up on me! I thought you had chased your brother halfway home already!” Westonly laughed, nervous and pale enough to be the physical symptom of “lily-livered”. He had a hand on Persephone’s shoulder, and even though the several petticoats, dress, winter coat, and other layers she could feel it tremble so vividly it may as well have been touching her skin. “Are your brothers outside already perhaps?”

“Uhm, yes, but Uncle Westonly—”

“Ah, that, you see, Lady Persephone, that is a very kind and considerate thing you have done there. Yes, making sure goodbyes were in order, yes. You’re growing up to be fine, well-mannered young lady, you are.” He turned her around with both hands, pushing her down the hallway. “I’ll walk you out, why, goodness, I have half a mind to walk you three home, you’ve all been so kind, I simply must inform your father—!”

“Uncle Westonly,” Persephone tried to dig her heels into the wood, but it was too slipery. Instead she slipped and slid, completely dependent on the elder behind her to stand. “Uncle Westonly, what was that room? This hall? The thing in the jar?”

“Ah, those? Uh, well, this is a part of my home, and that is my workshop, and the jar is a new toy! Yes, yes, a new toy.”

“B-But—” That felt like a lie somehow. Not a cruel one, like the kind Countess Henrietta told. But the kind her father told when he wanted to stop talking about her mother. Persephone found herself torn between allowing Uncle Westonly the same privacy she’d give her father upon such blatant lies, or prying. “—Why is this portion furnished so differently? —” 

He pulled her hood up over her head and so far down it was nearly acting like a blindfold. He let go of it when he had pushed them both past the door into the hallway. “Last owner.” He turned to lock the door exiting the living room.

“—But then how is this house so much bigger inside?—”

“I’m no architect, are you?” Uncle Westonly started pushing again. Persephone found purchase however amongst the rugs and pillows and the like all across the floor. Persephone was not physically stronger than an average girl her age, but Westonly was an old man that wasn’t physically stronger than average either. The immovable object met the unstoppable force.

“—How was that jar thing a toy?—” She tried to turn around and point.

“Don’t you like your toys pretty?”

Persephone tried to push back, one hand still pointing back at the door. “—Uncle Westonly, how could you even make something like that? What exactly are you hiding? And—”

Her uncle that wasn’t really her uncle bent down to her level. One hand on her shoulder, the other forcing her pointed hand to be back at her side. “My Lady, do you really question my abilities?” His laugh was nervous, hollow, nothing joyful like what she had heard before.

Persephone pursed her lips in a frown. Looking at his face, she realized Westonly looked an awful lot like grandfather whenever she’d ask him questions about her mother. He was smiling but his eyes were sad, guilty, anxious, and quietly, desperately pleading her to stop. Persephone sighed subtly. And she let it go. “No. I don’t.”

“Do you think there’s anything in the world I cannot make into a reality?” He gestured to all the toys around them in the expansive living room-shop. His smile was still thin and tight, but it was more genuine now at least.

“No, I suppose not.”

“That jar has an experimental toy inside is all. I don’t think it shall ever make it past the prototype, but I’m doing my best to save it.” He patted her shoulders and started to stand. “Understand?”

“Yes, Uncle Westonly.” Persephone played with her skirt, waving it back and forth. With hesitational prying, she asked, “Will you be bringing it tonight?”

“No, no, no.” Uncle Westonly scratched his beard, looking at the door with a habitual, empty smile. “If I can’t fix it before the party, I think it might have to be let go and allowed to pass on as another failure.”

Despite the lying moments ago, and the lying still, Persephone said, “You don’t fail.” She said it as with as much confidence and offense as if she had been asked whether it was still snowing outside or not while next to a window.

Westonly looked at her with something tired. His shoulders were relaxed in a way, but still raised and stiff in the sense of decade-long, untreated knots were preventing him from relaxing further. “Is that so?”

“You ask for help from my family sometimes. I know you asked my father for help with something a few months ago. I do not want to assume what. …But I assume financially.” She ignored his somewhat offended reaction with nonchalance. Persephone put both hands inside her muff to keep from noticeably fidgeting. “But, my point is, Uncle Westonly: You don’t fail. You never have.”

Westonly looked to the door, biting his lip. His fingers wiggled like they needed something to do, something to tinker with and try out. Persephone noticed how his eyes darted towards his sign still on the couch without moving his head from the direction of the front door. “You are rather selfless, I’ll admit. And you’re kinder than most, definitely.” Uncle Westonly breathed out slowly, his eyes fluttering closed and then back open. He smiled at her, small and symmetrical and it met both eyes. It was oddly vulnerable and Persephone felt herself freeze at that observation. He was being so vulnerable. “Would you help me, my Lady?”

“With anything.” Without hesitation.

Westonly smiled at her and said, “I think you will then, soon.”

“Tonight?” Persephone took a step forward, cocking her head to look at the door.

“Nothing that needs discussing now.” He nudged her shoulder for Persephone to turn around and keep walking.

“But soon?” She lifted her head up to look at him behind her, her hood falling. “Do you promise it will be soon? And with no more secrets?”

“Very soon. I promise.” He flipped her hood back up gently, her head’s position causing the dull-brass colored, furry edges to tickle her nose, making her laugh. “We’ll talk about it all another day.”

Persephone, still giggling in the aftermaths, readjusted her hood to cover all her hair again and hurried to out a bit faster. Upon opening the door, she spun around to give Uncle Westonly a hug. He had both hands up, surprised, but he returned the hug before she worried about it. It was longer than normal, and something in the way he pushed her head to be closer to him with his still trembling hands made her wonder if there was some additional clause he was avoiding mentioning to her.

She lifted her head to whisper to him with a coy smile on her face now, “Will we be able to talk about how you’ve been able to hear me speak without yelling as well? I was whispering earlier, you understand. Because surely, since we’ll be without secrets soon, we will have to talk later on the topic why you have been pretending to lose your hearing.”

Westonly jumped, startled, in her arms and his coy, crooked smile returned, the trembling slowing a bit with it. “Oh, nothing gets past you, does it?” He moved for the hug to end, so she responded in kind. “Now go, my frolicsome little Lady. You’re letting the cold in and death along with it. Be well, and be safe. I’ll see you tonight.”

Persephone giggled, preening, before she jumped off his porch, waving wildly. “Goodbye, Uncle Westonly! Don’t be late to our party!”

He waved back shyly and closed the door.

Persephone ran down the road, but her brothers out of sight. She slowed down. “What on…? They wouldn’t have left me. So what—”

Something cold hit the back of her hood, and a familiar voice cackled.

“Oh! The nerve!” She turned around, only to see a snowball narrowly miss hitting the back of her head again. This snowball had been thrown from the opposite side of the road as the first. “No fair! You had time to strategize!” Persephone bundled her own snowball, and threw it in the direction of the cackling laughter.

The laughter suddenly stopped. “Ow, that was frigid, Persey! How did you even get me?! I’m _hidden!_ ” The voice of Harry answered, and from the same direction as it came another snowball, hitting Persephone’s dress but not her person.

Then, from behind her, another snowball missed her by a foot. Terrible aim? That side must be Edmund.

Persephone grinned wickedly, and put both hands on her hips. “So you’re both hidden, hmm?” She took off towards home as fast as she could run. “No point in staying in hiding if your target is moving away from your spot!”

“That is _uncalled_ for!”

“Oh, now who’s being unfair, Persey?” Harry yelled after her, indignant but a smirk of pride was heavy in his voice. “I’ll gift you a clue as an early Christmas present: _it isn’t Mundsy for once!_ ”

“That is uncalled for too, you hellkite!” A snowball flew over to Harry’s side of the road, and Persephone gave Edmund the generous credit of assuming he meant to be (badly) aiming for Harry. Otherwise, the snowball missed Persephone as its target by at least two yards and Edmund’s aim was worse than previously thought.

Persephone laughed, joyous and careless again for the most part. She’d be lying to herself that there wasn’t some small part of her that was glad to be running away from that terrifying hallway. The wallpaper hadn’t been magic in any way, but the rodents section decorating it got under her skin and unnerved her system nonetheless. Persephone swore she could feel their clawed paws phantomly crawling on her, and hear the pitter patter of their scurrying feet after her just beyond the shadows. Persephone ran a little faster, to the point of stumbling and catching herself midfall. “Keep up, boys!” Her mind told her everything was fine, she was safe with her brothers, but Persephone’s nerves told her it was better to hurry to safety now rather than wish she had later.

However, the adrenaline didn’t last long. Persephone was only able to run for some time after ten minutes more before she was too unwell to continue such an exertion. She panted relentlessly. Her hands were on her knees, head dipped down low. Her loose hair dangled in front of her, and Persephone watched helplessly as they collected stray snowflakes. It wasn’t the addictive ache of running nor the clenched squeeze of her lungs that hurt her to the brink of collapsing. It was something like a painful sleep, slow and dismissable until it hit Persephone all at once, nearly making her collapse and fall unconscious. She felt like Zeus, her head was about to split with the creation of something massive and powerful and desperately unwanted. The growing pains of Athena’s birth had meant nothing in the face of hysterical adrenaline until such a shield died and the contractions began.

“Persey? Persey, are you alright?” Harry bent down past her level. He was kneeling before her, and looking up as far as his flexibility and gangly limbs would allow. Their foreheads were touching. He could see the shakiness of her being, her irises not even able to stay stable for long as she panted loudly.

“I told you that you’d run yourselves too ragged at this rate before we’d get home.” As he got closer, his pace hurried. “Oh, dear.” Edmund put a hand on her back, rubbing it comfortingly. “Are you even fit enough to walk home? Your face is nearly indistinguishable with the snow.”

“I— I’m f-fine.” She looked up to Ledford Park in the distance. It was only a couple miles away, but it felt like a continent’s entire mountain range at her current level of physicality. Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Her entire body was trembling from the cold, not of the weather (she was properly dressed for it), but of something internal. She felt like something within her, something important, was freezing over and changing dramatically.

“You’re obviously not.” Harry took her hands in his to force her to stand a bit straighter. “We have ran for hours on end often; this isn’t like you to be so tired so soon… I mean, we rested at Uncle Westonly’s and all. You weren’t even tired upon entering his home. Is there some hindrance affecting you that we’re unaware of, Persey?”

Edmund snapped with his free hand, recognition clear on his features. “Obviously, it’s her disposition.” Though his diction alluded to confidence, his voice was unsure. Edmund’s tapped his fingers along Persephone’s spine, anxious. “She’s becoming a woman now, increasingly faster with puberty and whatnot. You and she may have similar healths as children, but as you both grow older your biology will separate you further and further. Ergo, her health is diverting from the maximum capacity that you once shared. Women have much weaker healths than you and I, Harry. Mother always warned me that it would be illogical for Persephone to expect to stay at our pace for much longer.”

Harry’s lips pursed and pressed into the left side of his face. “Father said such talk is a load of lies and nonsense.”

“Father isn’t a woman nor is he a doctor. He’s a politician, who ought to have no opinions on a woman’s biology. Mother said so, and though she isn’t a doctor either, she’s been a woman all her life. Therefore, her experience and opinion outweigh father’s in this case.”

Persephone felt like if she tried to even walk at a brisk pace, she’d have a good chance of vomiting. Her limbs increasingly felt like lead. And her head had started to ache tremendously terribly. Despite (and in spite) all this though, Persephone still had the willpower to force her hand in throwing a fistful of snow at Edmund’s face for all of that.

Harry choked on his laughter, pointing as best he could in fingerless mittens, as Edmund sputtered to get the snow out of his mouth and wiped it off his face furiously. “Ha-ha!” Harry patted at Persephone’s arm as if encouraging her to do it again. “Seems like Persey, the girl in question whose experience you— who you should not have opinions on by your own argument and should listen to _her_ experience— agrees with father, so _take that_ , Mundsy!”

“I just feel sick suddenly is all.” She whimpered, rubbing her throbbing temples.

Harry’s face fell at that, his shoulders raising and all residual laugher diminishing. “Mmn,” His voice was a hushed, secretive whisper, “Is it your flowering time of the month by any chance? You _have_ been rather hysterical today.”

Persephone chucked snow at Harry’s face now, causing her twin in all but birthdate to fall on his ass in the snow. 

Edmund laughed at him now as Harry wiped his face with both hands and complete panic. “It was an understandable question!”

Edmund waved Harry off, his laughter thick in his every breath, “It was a tactless question is what it was, and you knew it upon asking.”

“Mundsy,” Persephone gripped onto his sleeve weakly and all his laughter ceased immediately, “I feel as though I was hit in the back of the head with a shovel.”

Edmund’s laughter died upon the word’s impact. He glared at Harry, his hands clenched into fists.

The younger brother lurched up, “I swear it was a regular snowball I threw! No ice or anything of the sort! I love Persey! Why would I hurt her?”

“You threw such as young Mr. Sinclair before he left for the social season.”

“Unintentionally! Accidentally!”

“Allegedly so.”

“No, no, not like that. I feel the pain just recently and you threw your snowball far in the past. I don’t believe it to have been the cause.” Persephone raised her head and her hood fell back. Immediately, Edmund whipped it back on her, his teeth set and brow furrowed in concern enough already. “I think I need to lie down a bit is all.”

“Persey, we’re quite a ways from home—”

“No,” Persephone shook her head, “Mr. Sinclair and his parents should be home from the season for our party by now. Both sirs are as good as doctors—”

“They’re several years of school too little to be ‘as good as a doctors’, really.” Edmund attempted to correct.

“—Perhaps one of them can make some recommendations for me? At worst, I can lay down there for a while and one or both of you can inform our family of my whereabouts.”

“Then we continue with the original plan of going to their home for confirmation next while we’re at it? Just amend that Persephone is carried to Ledford for rest as well. Two birds, one stone.” Harry stood up. He scrutinized Edmund with an appraising look. Persephone’s stomach churned at the familiarity of such a gaze. Harry pursed his lips together, nodding as he pointed. “Mundsy’s stronger.”

“Hmm. Funny. I feel both flattered and tricked.”

“Ignore the trick.” Harry waved his hand. “And accept it as if it was a compliment.”

“ _‘As if’_ it was? Well!” Edmund laughed through his faux offended look. “You—”

“Will one of you please help me get to Ledford please?” Persephone pulled on Edmund’s sleeve.

“Right, right, right you are.” Edmund hastily put an arm at the back of Persephone’s knees and the other hugged her shoulders. Being 21 years of age carrying a small girl that was newly turned 13, Edmund didn’t need more than an average amount of strength for his age. Mind that he couldn’t do it for hours like he good a hefty stack of books, nor that running with her would be easy (Persephone could feel hear his breath revealing he hadn’t fully recovered from the aforementioned running anyway), but it was doable. “Better?”

Persephone felt something like vertigo overtake her, and she shut her eyes tight, cuddling deeper into her older brother’s chest. “It’s fine.” She thought of the gold dust from before, the stuff that attacked her upon opening Uncle Westonly’s workshop door. Surely he would have been concerned if such interaction was truly a problem, would he not? Or had he not noticed it attack her so? But, regardless, what was the purpose of the glittery fairy dust anyway? She wondered if it was still evident on her skin upon scrutiny… Persephone hoped not, she hated to tiptoe around or, worse, lie but she didn’t want to endanger Westonly either.

“Fix her clothes would you? If she’s sick, we really don’t want to chance any skin showing for the snowfall to collect on.” Edmund bent over slightly for Harry to have better access. There wasn’t much to do. Persephone didn’t consider herself needing such infantile treatment, but found it easier instead of fighting to just continue to be carried in her big brother’s arms and allow such worries to be subdued on their terms.

Harry pulled her hood as far as it could go from several angles. He made carefully sure her mittens and sleeves overlapped, almost exaggeratingly so that Persephone nearly felt the desire to smack him. Then quickly pulled on the edge of her skirt once without looking (fair). And he took her miff for her to use as a makeshift pillow.

Edmund held her closer to himself, his thumb rubbing up and down her shoulder. His voice was as quiet as a whisper in the wind, thick as a blizzard with worry and concern overwhelming his vocal landscape, “Thank you, Harry.”

The three walked quietly afterward. Persephone would have complained had she not theorized the lack of sound might be what was lessening the pain of her headache. She kept her eyes closed. Edmund’s wool was irritating and scratchy, yes, but in that familiar way that wool was once you got used to it. After so long of being told to accept the scratchy blankets with a stiff upper lip, Persephone found the aggressive texture reassuring now.

She felt like her father had wrapped her up in another wool blanket to put to bed with, whispering in her hair that he was just worried about her catching her death of cold and to ‘Please, my darling girl, please keep it on tonight’. Persephone could scarcely refuse him when he spoke so sadly, like another heartbreak might destroy him completely. After years of accepting the blankets, she grew to associate them as protective, warm, and soothing as they’d trap in her heat and reject the cold. Anytime she was ill since, the coldest night of winter or hottest afternoon of summer, she’d insist on receiving a wool blanket to have until she felt well enough to discard it and stand on her own again.

Feeling so low now, it was a comforting and necessary thing to feel again. The fact remaining that it was her brother carrying her just added to positive association she now had. Though the lousy, terrible feeling in her head remained and throbbed with pain anew at every distasteful crunch of snow beneath their heels— Persephone felt better, relaxed, nonetheless. And considering the way the wind bit at any exposed skin and the snow started to fall harder once again, that was a feat to achieve.

Upon reaching Ledford Park’s front porch, Edmund set Persephone down to stand. He held her close to his side. “Hello?” Edmund used the door-knocker on the door, thundering in the silence of winter.

The door-knocker was a brown color, the color of a favorite cup of tea, and it stood out timidly against the black-painted door. Persephone had grown rather attached to it, pack-bonding to its scared furrowed brow and refusal to meet any knocker’s eyes, the knocker between its teeth as if something to anxious chew on. She always hoped the Sinclairs would get a secondary lion door knocker to give this cowardly one a sense of pack and solidarity, and perhaps find its bravery. She stood up a bit straighter, reminding herself to be brave too. She just had a migraine was all. She was British. Keep a stiff upper lip and all that, at least until the Sinclairs opened their home to them.

But they didn’t. Nobody was.

Harry split off from the trio to look into one of the front windows. He pressed his nose against it, and cupped both hands at his brow. “There’s no light inside. I think all the servants have gone home.”

“The Sinclairs should have been back by morning.” Edmund knocked on the door again. “This is very unlike them… They must be at our home early? I wouldn’t be surprised if they had decided to help our parents ready everything, and then gave their help the rest of the day off and all.”

“I mean, I can see _Ernest_ not opening the door to us. He’s likely running to his parents to tattle how we aren’t home yet.” Harry leaned his shoulder against the window, his arms crossed.

Persephone’s head’s pounding worsened, almost reactively to the sound of his name. She held a hand to support it and shook her head. “Mr. Sinclair wouldn’t do that.”

“I didn’t say _Mr._ Sinclair. I explicitly was talking about the _youngest_ Sinclair.”

“I said exactly what I meant. Mr. Ernest Sinclair doesn’t do that anymore.” Persephone’s headache made her thoughts feel as hard to grasp as trying to find civilization in a snowstorm. In fact, it felt like this morning’s initial snowstorm had transferred into her very mind. Persephone would rather be physically surrounded with the fire’s warmth of a summer’s day if her mind could not be so cloudless. Irritated, she slammed the handle down and shoved the door open easily. The lion’s gaze looked above her head at the new angle, looking as worried and scared as ever about some danger behind them. Goosebumps emerged on Persephone’s arms and she felt suddenly anxious to rush inside.

“Persey!” Edmund hissed, closing it before it opened further and pulling her back to his side. “One should not enter a house uninvited.”

“It’s the Sinclairs,” Persephone made a face, “Our families are close enough to go past such social guidelines.” She gestured at the lion as if for evidence. “We aren’t going to steal from them. Nothing besides some logs to burn at any rate. I just want to rest is all, can’t I just rest, Mundsy?”

Edmund looked as worried as the lion, anxiety as thick between his teeth as his own metaphorical knocker. After a moment of deliberation, he answered a hesitant, “No, we shouldn’t invade the privacy of their home when we have our own nearby.”

“You can be the one to tell father of my location if you like, you’ll likely see Miss. Sutton there soon anyway.”

Edmund immediately shook his head at that. “You’re speaking deceptions, Persey.”

“Aren’t you two engaged?”

“N-No!”

“Surely you want to be then? How the two of you behave is the true deception if you truly do not want to be engaged to her. You tolerate our teasing far too much, and unfairly, if so.”

“Well, their house isn’t set to welcome us anyway.” Harry, Edmund’s nonchalant savior, tapped the window. “There is still protective drapery over the furniture and the like. I don’t think they are so much not at home currently as I do think they never came home at all.” He looked inside with a squint. “Perhaps they decided not to come this year and stay in London for the remainder of the season? Or they received the date incorrectly? Or perhaps Ernest finally convinced his family to hate us. Could be any number of options.”

“No one can dissuade you of your low opinion of Mr. Sinclair, can they?”

“No, I have great respect for Mr. Sinclair. But you’re right on the topic of Ernest. He’s a tattle and a know-it-all with eccentric opinions on conversational regulation. He’d sooner eat his own shoe, I think, than engage in a night of normal socializing.” Harry snapped his fingers, “And it isn’t just myself alone on this. Once I even caught him rudely rejecting a compliment of his reciting of an excerpt of Wordsworth’s _The Thorn_ by saying such compliments mean nothing to him since he didn’t write the piece. The nerve of him, right?” Harry pursed his lips together exaggeratedly, like a duck, and gestured to Edmund and Persephone with a palm out to comment.

“I do agree he has enough hubris to be the main character of a Greek tragedy.” Edmund rubbed Persephone’s arm. “I think our relations with him would be much more mutually beneficial if we interacted as little as possible with each other. The young Mr. Sinclair seems happier that way anyway, if we all left him well enough alone.”

Persephone shoved Edmund away from her. He stumbled back half a step and kept his arms open to catch her should she fall to her left or right. Persephone kept her eyes shut, her posture perfect, and her fists steady by her sides in spite. “You’re both horrid. Horrid to Mr. Sinclair and horrid, shameful blemishes in the name of a good Samaritan.” Persephone turned to walk away from the estate. She barely opened her eyes. She suspected her migraine was giving her vertigo, so Persephone didn’t want to depend on her vision too much and held onto the porch’s railing tightly as she tried to go down its stairs. She paused when her mind realized it shouldn’t have stayed beside Edmund as something internal rushed to meet her with too much enthusiasm, causing everything to spin upon its powerful impact back into her body. She shut her eyes tight and stayed still, the whirling sensation nearly overwhelming. One of her arms wrapped itself as fully as possible around her stomach, the pain in her sides indescribable as the center of her gut began to dissolve and eat itself. Persephone doubted she could ever look at the glitter of gold without feeling like vomiting ever again. She could feel her hearing begin to dull in reaction to the new sickness, her body too busy trying to heal her to worry about her failing senses.

But she had a Mills’ pride. She took another step down the stairs, cautiously slow and utterly painful, and then another step after that.

“Persey!” It sounded like they were yelling at her through a wall. “What are you doing?”

“If I cannot be allowed to lounge in Ledford then I’m going home. What else can I do?” Persephone laughed a bitter laugh. “I’m most certainly not going to stand here and listen to my own brothers sully Mr. Sinclair’s name when he is both undeserving of such criticisms and not even here to defend himself.” Perhaps her migraine-induced illness was the main factor in what irritated her and set her patience to be so brittle now, but that did not mean there was no truth in Persephone’s critique. She felt sick to her very atoms— and here they were talking of social gossip and manners when they had scarcely had true intentions for such today. It was one thing when it was in the safe privacy of one another; formalities were unnecessary there. But it hadn’t been just them today. And when it came to decent, minimal human kindness…! “And after your unfair treatments of Uncle Westonly, I have _had_ it with you two! Consider me _gon—!_ ”

She opened her eyes mid-taking another step down and immediately regretted it. The vertigo was too intense. Everything looked like it was spinning independent on top of a giant top. With the wind of the snowfall spinning her skirts and biting at her cheeks with curved teeth, it felt like the physical world was spinning too. Her stomach was in knots, sick with confusion and throwing a temper tantrum about it. She felt an overwhelming rush of ice cold nothingness overtake her senses.

Persephone’s knees buckled. She wasn’t sure if she hit her head when she fell, but if she did, it was no a papercut worth of pain in comparison the contraction-like pain her head was already producing. She knew she must be worrying her brothers and she hated herself for it. Persephone’s ears were attacked by a surprise tsunami. There was a blood rush running through her eardrums so loudly she couldn’t barely and then couldn’t hear her own breath. Both her hands gripped onto Ledford’s railing with a dead man’s fragile grip.

She couldn’t stand to open her eyes again, much less stand to open her eyes. Nonetheless, she could feel hands on her. Gentle, familiar, soft hands; four of them. Her brothers were so close that it made her feel claustrophobic, but in the way your childhood bed was too small of a space. There, then, was the tough-love texture of wool against the skin of cheek just before the darkness. In that moment, oh, how she desperately longed for her father to be the one to tuck her in once more before going off into that nonconsensual good night.

Then the moment was over. And she couldn’t think anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GIF CREDIT: @ive-been-mistreated, tumblr. I flipped it, but it's still very much so their's.
> 
> ORIGINAL STORY'S POST, on tumblr: playbychoices.tumblr.com/post/181515989256/the-nutcracker-prince
> 
> AO3 services as my back-up account for all my fics on tumblr. I post them there first, and then eventually mass back-up them here. If you want updates on my fics ASAP, send me a message on tumblr to be on my tag-list! I also post fan art there too
> 
> KUDOS ARE VERY KIND BUT REVIEWS MOTIVATE ME


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